


Clarity (The Dreamer's Ball Remix)

by jerel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerel/pseuds/jerel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As John falls into a haze of fever, some things become clear to Sherlock. This work is a remix of brighteyed_jill's story "You Lead, I Lead, You Follow, I Follow," which is really good and you should read that one too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clarity (The Dreamer's Ball Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Lead, I Lead, You Follow, I Follow](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7989) by Brighteyed_Jill. 



Clarity (The Dreamer's Ball Remix)

It couldn't have been their unexpected dip into the Thames that made John curl up in bed shivering. If that were it, they would have both been sick. Or Sherlock more likely, since he was the one that didn't take care of himself with regular meals or sleep. Then again, John did have that gash on his side. Honestly, couldn't John resist throwing himself into harm's way on a regular basis? That was Sherlock's job. It was John's to rescue Sherlock from harm's way after he'd thrown himself in. They were going to have a talk in which their roles were clearly delineated. 

The cut hadn't been deep enough to require stitches. But the bumpy cab ride back to Baker Street had caused it to bleed through the bandage the paramedic had fixed into place. At home, John managed to slather some antiseptic cream on the wound when they'd. Sherlock had to pop the cap, because John was struggling, and Sherlock helped him re-wrap it. It wasn't until the tape was secure that he realized he could have taken a swab and examined it for bacteria. Normally, he would have just ripped it off and done so. But John looked so miserable, his chin tucked into his chest, like he was trying to shrink into the blanket, that Sherlock fought down his scientist's curiosity. “Tea?” he asked.

John shook his head. “Just sleep.” Sherlock swiped John's laptop from the bureau and went downstairs to answer e-mail. 

A few hours later, he heard several thuds above his head. Not loud enough to be a body falling out of bed. Still, Sherlock went to investigate. 

John's blankets were half-on, half-off the bed. On the floor were the lamp and several other items from the nightstand. Sherlock guessed John had knocked them over in the process of removing the blankets. Probably kicked or threw them off was more accurate. “'s too hot,” John mumbled, looking up at Sherlock with unfocused eyes. 

Fever. Yes, John had a fever. Indicator that the body is fighting off an infection. Sherlock had had his share and he would just lie in bed or the couch and wait for it to go away. 

But he wanted to help John. His friend was suffering and surely he, Sherlock, could fix that. How, though? 

Solution: ask a doctor. Good thing there was one in the room.

“John?” he asked. In response, John rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, moaning. “John! What do you do about a fever?” He mumbled something into the pillow. “I can't understand you like that.”

He lifted his head slightly. “'S a desert. Always hot. Better when the sun goes down.”

John thinks he's in Afghanistan. Hallucinations. Bad sign. Solution: ask another doctor.

John had left his phone in Baker Street last night, so it was still dry and in perfect working condition. Sherlock dialed Sarah's number. 

Irrelevant inquiry about John's well-being. Obviously not well if flatmate/friend is calling to ask medical advice. No, John wasn't vomiting or coughing up blood. No, he didn't have a rash. Yes, Sherlock felt fine. Muscle pain, stiff neck? “John, do you hurt anywhere?” he asked.

“Everywhere” was the pillow-muffled reply.

“I don't think there's any place that hurts more than any other,” Sherlock told her.

Fluids. Rest. Paracetamol. She would get him a script for antibiotics, just in case John's cut was infected. “I would give it another twelve hours or so for the fever to break,” she said. Ring her back if it didn't. 

Possible course of action one: go back downstairs. Negative consequence: John may try to get out of bed, likely causing himself injury. John in pain is bad,

Now there was an unexpected direction his brain took on him. Not “injured John is inconvenient for the work,” which would have been the first thought of the Sherlock of three months ago. But no. It was thought of seeing John in pain that caused him concern. An injury wasn't something Sherlock could out-reason or study under a microscope. Sure he'd successfully cured John of the psychosomatic limp. But this would be an actual, physical injury. One that only time and/or medical assistance would cure.

Possible course of action two: stay in John's presence. Negative consequence: not get work done on computer. Alternative: use phone; screen smaller, touchscreen not as good as keyboard, but still usable. May prevent further injury to John and in close proximity to observe new symptoms if they develop.

He dragged a chair from across the room to John's bedside, and started to answer e-mails on his phone.

Occasionally, John would ask him a question about a case—this case, previous cases—or just mutter random nonsense. Worries about the bills, Harry, patients (past, current or imaginary patients, Sherlock couldn't tell.) And worries about Sherlock himself. Even in his current state, John was still concerned about other people. Amazing, Sherlock thought. Strange, but amazing. Sherlock assured him everything was taken care of. He placed a hand on John's head, felt the heat from the dry skin radiating back through his hand. But John leaned in, something like a sigh escaping him. 

Data: normal body temperature perceived as cooling to John. Hypothesis: cool object may bring relief. He would have preferred ice, but Sherlock had raided the fridge's ice maker for parts months ago. Instead, he found the softest flannel he could in and put it in cold water. He wrung out the excess moisture and laid it across John's forehead. 

It seemed to bring some coherence to the confusion. John was talking about how he took dance classes to prepare for Harry's wedding. He seemed to realize both the wedding and the lessons were in the past. And yet...

“I'd rather dance with someone who knows what he's doing,” John said. He pressed his hip into the hand Sherlock was resting on the bed.

Yes, he and Mycroft had both taken instruction in their younger days. Well, Sherlock had taken instruction on those occasions when Father could find him, which wasn't always an easy task. It wasn't for lack of skill or embarrassment that he took to hiding. It was just he found it deathly dull. He'd mastered the steps in the first lessons, and saw no point in additional ones. John was making an assumption—a quite correct one, in this case. But unlike every other time, it lacked the acrimony, the rancor that usually accompanied such talk about Sherlock's privileged upbringing. In fact, Sherlock would characterize the tone of voice as...uncertain. Like he lacked direction and needed assistance in finding the right path.

Are we still talking about dancing? Sherlock wondered. Was John trying to tell him something, something he wouldn't discuss if he were well?

Possible course of action one: ignore him. No negative consequences, as John probably wouldn't react to being ignored, staying inside his own altered state. 

Possible course of action two: remind John they were in Baker Street, not a dance studio, and there was no possibility of embarrassment. Similar negative consequences to course of action one.

Possible course of action three: interact with John on his terms. Positives: reassurance could alleviate worry--psychosomatic relief, as it were. Negative consequences: encourage delusion, allude to closeness that isn't there...

Now that's not true, is it? the voice inside him said. He was used to ignoring that voice. The superego, Freud had called it. The voice that told him what he was doing wasn't proper, wasn't socially acceptable, wasn't right. Usually it sounded like Mycroft, so he was perfectly capable of telling it to shut up. Today, it didn't sound like Mycroft. Mostly because it was correct.

At some point—he didn't know when, precisely, it had happened—he had taken John out of the box labelled “The Work” and put him somewhere else. Not another box. No box could hold the entirety of what John Watson had become to him. 

Stall for time.

Sherlock favored him with a slow smile. “When did you take dance classes?”

“For Harry’s wedding. Disaster, the whole undertaking. The wedding, I mean, not really the classes. Still, I’m glad you know the steps.”

“Yes.” And he as he looked into John's glassy hazel eyes, he asked himself, what would John do?

Decision made.

Sherlock’s left hand gripped John’s right, and his other hand tucked into the edge of John’s hip. “I’ll take care of you out there.” 

“Mm.” John let his eyes drift closed.

The old Sherlock would have smiled in triumph at his correct prediction. The new Sherlock registered it, but the feeling of a successful guess was overridden by something else. The feeling of John's hand in his. Part of his brain was cataloging the texture of John's skin, the folds of his palms. But it was being overwhelmed with something else. The naturalness of the thing. As if all his life, he'd been waiting just to interlock his fingers with John Watson. 

“Let’s wait for a song that plays less rough. A waltz, maybe. No one gets stabbed and dumped into the Thames during a waltz.”

“I’d have thought you’d prefer to tango.”

“Takes two,” John said sagely, then giggled. He visibly winced, as if in pain. No, that was not acceptable to Sherlock. An idea occurred to him about another way to bring John relief. But it would involve letting go of John's hand. He of course knew he'd have to let go eventually. The Mycroft-voice said heterosexual men like John did not hold hands with their male flatmates—friends, Sherlock corrected him—so he could just forget about it in the future. Reluctantly, he let go.

“Waltz it is.” His voice was over-bright, to hide the ache he now felt. He picked up his violin from the case at his feet and tucked it under his chin.

John's eyes closed as Sherlock lost himself in the music. He pictured the two of them waltzing across a parquet floor. He could not tell who was leading or who was following. They moved together as if they had done it their whole lives, as if they were born knowing what to do when paired with the other. 

As the last notes echoed away, Sherlock pressed a hand to John's cheek. Yes, he did feel a little cooler. “Sleep,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be here.” His fingers lingered there, on John's face, tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

“You’ll tell me when it’s time for the next dance?” John's voice was heavy with exhaustion.

“Yes.”

“You won’t dance with anyone else while I’m sleeping?”

“No.” Sherlock set down his violin so that he could hold both of John’s hands in his. “No I won’t.” 

As John drifted away, Sherlock whispered, “Never. Only you, John. You are the only one I want.”


End file.
